


full circle

by runandgo



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: (in the same style as the game), (yes yes it is), Angst, Angst and Feels, But also, Domestic Fluff, Female Apprentice, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Magic, Other, Recovered Memories, before they had his actual sad art down?, i just wanna write for the arcana now is that too much to ask, post-asra upright ending, remember that "aswa cwying :(" sprite the devs made, sorry y'all i had to pick a gender, to make up for the, yeah that's this fic lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 01:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21509461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runandgo/pseuds/runandgo
Summary: His head drops downwards, and his fingers idly trace the faded whorls of color on our bedspread. “Of course you’re ready. I’m asking the wrong questions. You’re ready for anything I could put you up to.” A wry smile flits across Asra's features. “Really, it’s that I wasn’t ready. But seeing you... you deserve to know.”Asra shows the Apprentice his memory of the day she was brought back.(edit: i incorrectly had this tagged as f/m and have fixed it! so sorry about that!)
Relationships: Asra (The Arcana)/Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 96





	full circle

**Author's Note:**

> hi y'all! i've been totally obsessed with the arcana recently, and i really love how it was written, so i thought i'd try my hand at writing an extra scene. i originally wanted to include "choices" but i couldn't figure out a good way to make it work on here :( i've been really thinking about seeing the scene where the apprentice comes back from asra's perspective, since we know very little about it, so i wrote this to express my Feelings (tm).

The smell of tea, rich and earthy, wakes me from a dreamless sleep. It’s autumn now, and last night Asra hauled all of our quilts out of the closet. It doesn’t get cold in Vesuvia, not like it does in the South, but it’s definitely not summer anymore, and I’m grateful for the warmth as I burrow a little deeper into the nest of blankets.

Well, part of the reason I’m so cold is because Asra’s up already, standing in the kitchen at the kettle, pouring two steaming mugs full of hot water. He’s only wearing a pair of loose linen trousers that hang too low on his hips, and his hair looks like a puff of cotton still on the branch, wild and soft. He’s gorgeous. 

I make an exaggerated wolf whistle at him, and he turns around languidly, eyes half-lidded in the morning light. “You don’t look too bad yourself. What are you after, sweetheart?” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice, a little scratchy and rumbling deeper in his chest than usual. He walks over with the mugs, and holds them up, raising an eyebrow at me. “I brewed that cranberry blend that Portia brought us back from Nevivon.” 

“There’s something else I’d rather have first,” I say, trying and failing to be seductive and eventually just giving into the silliness by waggling my eyebrows at him. 

“Well, the tea’s too hot to drink right now, anyway.” He grins and climbs back into bed as I scoot over to make room for him. The bed gets warmer almost as soon as Asra’s back under the sheets; he’s a furnace of a human, and I cuddle closer, pressing my hands along his torso to steal his heat. He laughs and wraps his arms around me, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Oh, poor [MC]. All alone in the bed for ten minutes!” 

“Hey, watch it, or you’ll be alone in the bed for a lot longer,” I grumble. 

Asra lets out a bright peal of laughter and tilts my face up so our eyes lock. “I don’t believe you for a second.” 

“You shouldn’t,” I murmur, and kiss him. His mouth is even warmer than the rest of him, and that glow spreads down throughout my body, heating me up all the way to the tips of my toes. He slides his hands up my shirt, strokes the smooth skin on my back, and even as it warms me, I shiver, breaking out into goosebumps. 

“Still cold?” he asks, brushing his lips against the corner of my jaw, kissing down my neck. 

I shake my head and catch his eye. “No.” 

A smirk spreads across Asra’s face, dimples on display. Wordlessly, he slides his tongue along my neck, then bites down. I gasp and throw my head back, involuntarily, only to feel him laugh against me. Satisfied, like the cat that got the cream. His nimble fingers make quick work of the buttons on my sleep shirt, and when they slip inside to press against my skin, I sigh, leaning into his touch. 

On the reddened mark his teeth left on my skin, he breathes my name, and then neither of us speak again for quite a while. 

We lay in for as long as we can justify, until Asra rolls softly out of bed to pick up our now-cold mugs, bringing them back up to a steaming temperature with a wave of his hand. He hands me one and presses a kiss to my forehead when I take it. 

My hands curl around the mug and I take a sip of the tea. It’s delicious — full of warming spices, and Asra’s added honey the way he knows I like it. Next to me, the mattress complains as he sits down, curled around his own cup. With a big intake of breath, he opens his mouth, and I can already tell what he’s going to say. “Are you sure you’re ready—“ 

“ _Asra._ ” I grab his wrist and watch his eyes widen, but he gives me his hand all the same, flushing across his cheekbones as I press a kiss to the base of his palm. “I’m ready. I know what was causing me pain, and I didn’t... go under again. I’m fine. I need to see this, and you’ve been putting it off long enough.” Gently, I release his hand. 

His head drops downwards, and his fingers idly trace the faded whorls of color on our bedspread. “Of course you’re ready. I’m asking the wrong questions. You’re ready for anything I could put you up to.” A wry smile flits across his features. “Really, it’s that I wasn’t ready. But seeing you... you deserve to know.” Asra takes another sip of his tea, still not meeting my eyes. “I just want you to know. I’m not proud of the person I was back then. Grief drove me to... lengths I never thought I’d go to. Every day without you brought me more pain, until I was nearly out of my mind with guilt and loneliness.” 

“I know. When I was in the library, I saw a memory of you and Julian. You were... definitely different.” 

A veil drops down behind his eyes. He’s guarding his reaction carefully. “What memory, exactly?” 

Now I can feel color flood my face as I recall the circumstances in the vision. The way Asra teased Julian so cruelly... and the way Julian lapped it up. “Um.” I clear my throat, then plow on, watching Asra’s face assume a cringe. “He followed you back from the library to the shop. He was going to try to get you to pay attention, I think, to what you were working on? But instead, you, uh... cut his palm, and licked it, and he—“ 

“Okay!” As I described the scene, Asra’s face got redder and redder, and turned more and more away from me, until finally he bursts out, cutting me off. “Yes. I — I remember that. He wanted me. And I wanted to get back at him. For what I thought he did to you.” With a deep breath, Asra looks over to me. “I’m ashamed of that. No one should take their feelings out on their partner, no matter how much their partner might like it.” 

“I figured that was why you hadn’t told me about it.” 

He huffs out a laugh and cards a hand ruefully through his hair, sticking it up even more on his head. “More or less. And I was worried about your memories.” 

“Well, is what I’m about to see worse than that?” I ask. 

For a moment, Asra just thinks, then he shakes his head, slowly. “Not... in the same way. But it’s painful.” 

I loop my arm around his and squeeze, and he leans into my touch. We share a deep breath, and then I speak, softly. “We can deal with painful.” 

This time, he wears an expression I haven’t seen in a while — the one he used to get when he’d leave me behind for his journeys. “I wish we didn’t have to. But eventually we’ll be done with the painful parts.” He closes his eyes and I can feel his magic thrumming outwards, from the tip of his outstretched finger to the bones of the shop and beyond. 

A response comes a few seconds later, eager. _Here!_ And a thump follows as Faust slides through the window, onto the floor, and over to the bed, flicking her tail against me in a friendly way as she rushes over to curl up on Asra’s chest. 

“And what did you get up to last night, hm? Not stealing knives from Selasi again?” Asra knits his brows together and gives Faust his most serious look. 

_Wanna do crime!_ she pipes up, wearing as close to a smile as a snake can get. 

I snort and bury my face in Asra’s neck; he tries his best to keep his stoic facade, but the corner of his mouth is turning upwards against his own will. “It’s still illegal even if you’re a snake, Faust. Besides, you know who’s in charge of dealing with crime? Nadi. And if you get in trouble, I don’t think Chandra will share her mice with you anymore.” 

This seems to temper Faust’s enthusiasm for criminal behavior. She coils herself up a little tighter, and her voice is more restrained. _Won’t…_

“Good.” Asra reaches out and tickles under her chin. “Can you show us a memory, Faust? Of the day [MC] came back to us?” 

She curls in on herself tighter, seeming agitated as her tongue moves in and out, faster and faster. Bad time. 

A shadow passes over Asra’s face, and his voice goes heavy. “I know. But she deserves to see it, doesn’t she?” 

Slowly, Faust stretches out along the pillows, wrapping the end of her tail around my wrist and resting her head on Asra’s shoulder. _Careful…_ she warns, and he still looks so sad. 

“We will be.” 

The darkness comes rushing into my vision from all sides, like a cloud, and I hardly have time to grab Asra’s hand before the shop is gone and we’re tumbling away. 

~ 

When we come back to ourselves, we’re in the same room, watching from the kitchen. Footsteps come hurriedly up the stairs and Asra, looking younger in the body but infinitely older in his eyes, bursts in. He’s wearing a finely embroidered knee-length tunic, golden leggings, and long pointy shoes. His mask, the same one he wore to the masquerade where we defeated the Devil, is pushed back on his head, hair coming out of its hold to creep through the eyeholes. 

He’s disheveled in a way I’ve never seen him before; not just too focused on other things to care about what he’s wearing, but dirty. There’s ash coating the leather of his shoes and creeping up the legs of his pants in long, sooty streaks, and it’s across his face as well. Down the front of his tunic, there’s a stain like a splash of blood, and his fingers are tinted as well, the color dying his skin a deep burgundy. The logical side of my mind knows that it’s just the pomegranate juice, but it’s unsettling. He doesn’t look right like this. 

Behind him, he slams the door shut, then slides down to the floor with his back against it, shoulders shaking. With a clatter, he throws his mask to the floor, and when he lifts his face, tears have carved a path through the dirt on his face. Pain and weariness is written through every feature. It takes the breath out of me to look at him. 

For a while, he just sits there, crying silently, wracking his whole body. Faust slithers out of his sleeve and winds around his shoulders, but even her presence doesn’t seem to be much comfort. I have to look away, pressing my face into the warm skin of my Asra’s shoulder. Eventually, the sounds of his crying fade, and I turn back to see the vision of the past reach into his pocket and pull out the arcana. But instead of flipping a card, or spreading them out in front of him, he hesitates… and slips them back into his pocket. His hands fly instead to his tunic and undo the buttons to the waist; I gasp when I see his chest. The mark is fresh, and it’s red, raw, bloody, bruised, like a new tattoo, but white, glowing. He traces it, lets his eyes flutter shut, then goes back to the tarot deck and pulls out a single card. The Magician. His patron. 

The mark flares, and past Asra draws in breath, like it hurts. The world shivers slightly, like he’s dropped a glamour over the room itself, and when he looks up, finally, the fox-headed figure I’ve come to know so well is standing in the shop in front of him, stroking their chin, maddeningly unreadable. They wait for Asra to speak, and when he does, his voice is broken. “Did it work?” 

“You have eyes, Asra, don’t you?” the fox answers, raising their eyebrows. 

He shakes his head, breathing through his nose. “I don’t trust them. Not after… not after tonight.” 

“Then what did I teach you to do, in your times of uncertainty?” 

“Ask the cards,” Asra answers immediately. 

“Then why are you only talking to me?” The Magician begins to pace, slowly, back and forth, and I can see annoyance on past-Asra’s face. I’ve never witnessed him show outward frustration with his mentor, or really anything other than passive acceptance of their mysterious ways. 

He appears to swallow the feeling down using the last of his resolve. “I’m worried I won’t like the answer they give me.” 

“So you plan to sit here in your shop forever, wasting away, unsure if it was worth it to risk your humanity?” 

“Fine!” This time Asra can’t contain his outburst, and more tears well up in his eyes. “Fine. I’ll ask the deck.” 

The mark activates again as the Magician fades away without comment, and the shop returns to its normal, solid appearance, but he hardly seems to notice this time as he pulls out the arcana once more with a shaking hand. Screwing his eyes closed, he draws a card and lays it flat on the floor before him, between his feet. I walk closer, and my Asra follows, a few steps behind. 

It’s the Fool, of course, the familiar empty background staring up at me. But past Asra is shocked; he rears back, and picks up the whole deck. They’re all trying to speak to him, I can hear it, cacophonous and distracting, but he shuffles rapidly through, only glancing at each card before flipping on to the next. 

Present Asra, stock still behind me, finally speaks, in a strained voice. “I didn’t know where the Fool, or their dog, had gone. The only logical solution I could think of, at the time, was that they’d traveled to another realm... that my actions had irreversibly shifted the world of the arcana instead of bringing you back.” 

I walk back over to him, briefly turning my back on the memory, and take his hand. He still looks shaken, but he leans forward, rests his head on my shoulder, and we turn together to watch the scene continue. 

Having checked each card for signs of the Fool, past Asra puts the rest of the deck face-down on the floor by his knee, then turns back to the card, empty and expectant. With a deep breath, he picks it up again, holding it flat in his palm. 

I can hear the card speak, and it’s in my voice. My Asra winces and shuts his eyes, and a tear rolls down his cheek at the sound. “You paid the price for this choice, magician.” 

“I know.” His voice is quiet, desperate. “I know I did. But please, tell me, _please_. Was it worth it? Did it work?” 

“The body has returned to the soul,” the Fool says. And that’s all Asra needs to hear. The laugh that tears itself from his throat sounds almost painful, but it’s genuine as he tips his head back and lets it rest against the wooden doorframe. “But be careful,” the Fool continues, and he falls silent, the clouds gathering over his face as quickly as they left. “The ritual has bled the lines between your world and ours. There are those who would seek to destroy these lines. Take your new beginning from me, and use it well, for you earned it, but do not take it for granted, and do not let your guard fall.” 

“I won’t,” Asra whispers, and he brings the card to his mouth and presses a kiss to the surface. It shimmers with magic from the touch of his lips before he slides it back into the deck and returns the cards to his pocket. 

On shaky legs, he stands, and goes over to the kitchen like he’s walking in a dream. He wipes his face with a cloth, staring at himself in the mirror, and mechanically removes what’s left of his makeup, fluffs his hair into its usual style. His mouth is working like he’s trying not to be sick, and tremors run through his fingers. As I watch him, it’s like a thousand different feelings try to twist his features at once. Fear, hope, shame, regret, and the familiar sense of his longing, still so powerful and raw it almost knocks me over, radiating from both the identical bodies standing in the room. 

When he’s cleaner, he leaves the kitchen and walks into the living space, navigates around the overstuffed armchair and the ratty little couch with precision, until he’s standing by the bed. I see the crumpled body of a person lying under several layers of blankets, and as we follow past Asra across the room, I realize that... it’s me. 

I’m asleep, my brow smooth and unlined, wearing what looks like a plain white cotton dress. My hair is fanned out on the pillow, and one hand is tucked behind me, another fisted tightly in the covers. I just look normal, like I always do, but it seems to tear Asra apart from the inside out. Beside the bed, a strangled noise escapes his throat and he drops to his knees on the wooden floor. It has to hurt, but he doesn’t notice, just crawls closer until he’s eye-level with my sleeping body. 

So lightly, he brushes my hair aside to rest the back of his hand on my forehead. Checking for fever, I realize, and my heart seizes up painfully. His fingers creep down to press against my neck, reading my pulse, checking the nodes by my neck that Julian taught me about. I guess he did occasionally listen to the doctor. My body passes every test, and I watch the creases on his forehead smooth out slowly as he continues. When he’s run his course, he steels himself, clenching his jaw, then finally, gently pulls up one of my eyelids, checking for the red-dyed sclera of the plague. 

The eye, though sleepy, is perfectly, normally white, and the sight causes Asra to sit heavily back down on the floor, fresh tears finding their way down his face. He claps a hand over his mouth to stifle the sounds, afraid to wake me, but I can see the relief in his eyes. 

My chest feels tight, overfull. I have to turn away. When I do, I meet my Asra and he opens his arms to me, and then we’re both crying together, sinking down to the floor in a mirror of his past self. His hand grips the back of my neck and I can hear him inhale, shakily. “I knew it was you,” he says, muffled, into my ear. “I was worried you’d come back different, corrupted. But when I checked your eyes, I could smell your hair. It smelled like it always did, flowery and light and… comforting in a way that I hadn’t even noticed I’d been missing. And I knew you were really back.” He breathes in again, deep enough for it to sound ragged, like a drowning man gasping for air, and holds me even closer. I remember what he once said to me about the power of smell memories. His scent does the same to me. It awakens some part of my heart that was sleeping before I met him. 

As one, we turn back to the memory, and watch as past Asra lays a hand on my body's chest, over my heart. He closes his eyes, and a breeze ruffles his hair, magic pulsing through his arm into me. My eyes open, and that’s my first memory since I woke up; his face, staring down at me. We’ve come full circle. I look up at my Asra, whose face is impassive, like he’s hiding his expression from me, even though the tears are still wet on his cheeks. “Let’s go home,” I say. He nods stiffly, and the world goes black again. 

~ 

The bed under us slams into existence and we sit up, bewildered, Faust unwinding herself from our bodies. _Back!_ she chirps excitedly, curling herself up on Asra’s stomach. 

He strokes her head absently, but he’s looking at me instead. “Do you feel all right? No headaches?” 

I shake my head. “I’m fine. Really.” As soon as I confirm that, he draws me into a crushing hug, pressing kisses into my hair, along the side of my head. I can barely choke out my own question — “Are you all right?" 

His face isn’t in view, but I can feel his nod, sense the conviction in his magic as it hums under his skin. “Or... I will be.” Asra draws back at last and lays against the headboard, holds out his arm as Faust winds her way up it. They both look exhausted; this must have taken a lot out of them. 

“Let me cook you something for breakfast,” I say suddenly, kicking the covers off and buttoning up my shirt. It’s well near noon now, and the sun streaming through the windows has warmed the room enough that I don’t shiver. I don’t give him time to argue as I stand up, stretch out my legs — they’re asleep from sitting still on the bed for so long — and hop into some leggings. Walking over to the pantry, I consider our food, tapping a finger on my chin. 

“Can you make some pep-up potion?” Asra asks quietly. Turning on my heel, I see him watching me, soft in a way that tugs at something in my chest. Faust has her head resting on top of his, between the white curls that gleam almost golden in the sunlight. 

“Of course I can.” I try to bite back the proud grin that still tries to steal over my face; potions were one of the first things I could do, reliably, without too much effort, and the magic still flows easily to my fingers now, as if it was just waiting for me to call it to action, while I chop herbs and reach for the ingredients stowed away among our little kitchen. There’s a clinking from inside the stove, a groan, and I can tell the salamander’s awake; I poke a parcel of fresh smokeroot, wrapped in a yew leaf, through the grate, and he chews for a few seconds, then rumbles to life. The apartment fills with his warmth in no time. 

One of the ingredients that I want to try adding, thanks to Mazelinka’s recommendation, we keep downstairs, and when I come back up with the glass jar full of powdered waspwood (she claims it’s her secret to the spicy flavor), Asra’s out of bed, clothed properly this time, and tasting my brew. “Hey! Don’t add anything.” I cross the room in a few strides and set the jar down on the counter, balanced rather precariously on top of a pile of dishes. “You asked for _my_ pep-up potion, and that’s what you’ll get.” 

Smiling, he steps away, dropping the ladle back into the pot. “I promise, I didn’t add anything. I just wanted to taste it. You get better at this every day.” The shadow is back across his eyes, and he sounds melancholy when he speaks again. “It tastes different than how you used to brew it before you…” 

“Died,” I supply. I’ve never been scared of talking about this, but even though I’ve seen all there is to see — seen my own gravesite, where my old body was buried, seen my resurrection through two different sets of eyes, lived through relearning everything about the world — Asra still just looks stricken with more shame when I say it. 

Sighing, I set the ladle stirring on its own and face him. “Of course the potion tastes different. It tastes different from how I made it a _month_ ago, even. Things change, Asra, people change. And this might surprise you, but it doesn’t all tie back to one decision you made years ago. We’ve gone over it in every possible way, and now there’s just… nothing left for it. It happened, and even if you wanted to, you can’t undo it.” 

Abashed, he blinks. “I don’t want to.” 

“Well, good. Then can we stop the self-flagellation, just for today, please? It’s like Julian’s here.” 

For a second, Asra doesn’t say anything, and in a flash of panic, I worry that I was too harsh. But he laughs, quiet at first, then growing a bit louder, and I slump against the counter, tension leaving me. “Okay. You’re right. As usual.” He gives me that brooding, catlike smile he’s so fond of, and pads over to the couch, throwing himself down and pulling out the tarot deck. “I can amuse myself until you’re done.” A glint in his eye tells me he’s not mad, and he arranges himself in a cross-legged position and begins to lay out the cards on the table in a five-pointed formation. 

A held breath escapes my lips. I wasn’t sure if that would work at all… But it seems to have snapped Asra out of his funk. I feel like he was waiting for me to be angry with him. Yet, even knowing how he behaved, what he did, I can’t be. It’s true that I didn’t ask to be brought back, but that decision was made long ago, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it now. I know that he probably won’t stop turning the memory and the path that led to it over, like a stone worn smooth in a hand, for a long time — if he ever does stop. Knowing brought me peace, though, and I can only hope that sharing his knowledge with me will bring him peace, too. 

The potion’s emitting a golden-and-purple mist that curls around itself as it rises into the air, and I know it’s almost done. With a flourish, I sprinkle in the waspwood, and in a moment of inspiration, grab the well-worn jar of lavender from behind a stack of bowls. I’ve always used lavender to wash my hair, and we’ve chatted over more cups of lavender-infused black tea than I can count. It won’t do much to the taste at this point, but at least the smell might help shake some life back into Asra. 

Picking my way between the stacks of books we’ve borrowed from Aisha and Salim, I make a path to the couch and hand him a steaming bowl of potion. He reaches out and grabs it, moving his feet up so I can take a seat on the other cushion, then pulls it close. “You know, the cards agree with you.” 

“About what?” I’m a little surprised that the message was clear enough for him to make such a confident statement. 

“About the past. Memories.” When he passes his hand over the table, the deck appears, and he picks it up. “Letting go of the power the past holds over us. You’re good at it. I need improvement.” From below his overgrown fringe of hair, he looks up at me, and taps me between the eyes with the corner of the deck, eliciting a laugh. “They’re telling me what I should already know… to listen to you." 

I can’t hold back the smile, partially borne of relief. This one I managed to get right. “Just drink your soup.” 

With my foot, I poke his leg, and he obediently takes a sip as he slides the cards back to their resting place. “Mmm. When I said different, you know, I wasn’t insulting your skills.” A stray drop rolls out of the bowl and along the corner of his mouth, and he’s quick to chase it with his tongue. “It’s good. I feel better already.” 

“I was worried I was going to have to run the shop by myself tonight and wait for you to sleep off our trip down memory lane.” 

“I’ll be energized again in no time.” Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him take a deep inhalation of the steam rising from the bowl’s surface. “Did I ever tell you how much I love being able to feel your magic?” Asra asks. “That signature of you in your spells and potions… It’s intoxicating. I love watching you at work, I love when you cast on me.” 

I blush; it’s an incredibly intimate compliment, and one that I can return in kind. “I love yours too. It’s like a warm blanket, or taking my shoes off at the end of a long day.” One of the first sensations I felt when I woke up was Asra healing my body, making me strong enough. Our combined magic is steeped into the walls of this shop, the cards, the crystal balls, and I can’t imagine this place without his trace left behind, smoky, sultry, warm. It’s familiar. It’s home. 

He doesn’t respond aloud, just opens his arms, and I go to him, settling in between his legs, back against his chest. He rests his bowl on my head and I swat it away, scowling, playful. “I love you,” he says plainly, looking at the dust filtering in the beams of sunlight, his tone deceptively light. 

My breath catches in my throat. Asra isn’t stingy with expressing his feelings, he’s as honest as he can be now that he’s not hiding anymore. But it‘s still so good to hear him say that, and to feel it ring true, the weight of his conviction tangible in every place we touch. It washes over me like a wave. For someone with half a heart, his emotions are arresting, overpowering, breathless. “I love you too,” I respond, and try to send back the storm in my chest, a tide rising that I could never express with words. 

We finish the meal in companionable silence, talking with magic instead of words, passing pulses of emotion back and forth. When Asra licks up the last drop, he sets his bowl gently on the floor and leans down to kiss me from above. He tastes like lavender and worrywort, and his hand is gentle on my cheek, thumb rubbing at the base of my cheekbone. 

I could get the arcana out from his pocket, listen to what they’ve got to say, try to forecast whatever’s coming next — because heaven knows there will always be something. But I also don’t have to. Right now, we can ignore the big picture, whatever universal plan we’re a part of, and _exist_ , two people in a small magic shop in a sprawling city, warmed by the autumn sun, and content to be just that, at least for a little while.

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this fic, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! it truly does make my day to hear from people who enjoy my writing :~) i don't really post about the arcana on tumblr because the last thing i need is to randomly change the theme of my blog AGAIN (edit: i actually made an arcana blog lol so i’m putting that here), but if you want to chat about it (especially julian, asra, or portia's routes bc they're my faves), feel free to send me a message [@vsuvia](http://vsuvia.tumblr.com) and i'd be more than happy to scream with you!!!
> 
> thank you SO much for reading <3


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